


A Man of Gentle Heart

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [20]
Category: Vikings - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dear gods, M/M, the angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their raid on Winchester, Ragnar notices that Athelstan is upset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Gentle Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 2x03 and 2x04. Follows [Coming Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1826680)

Athelstan was never an exceptionally talkative man, yet his silence as the evening shadows descended on their camp was unusually deep, and this did not go unnoticed, as Ragnar learned.

“Are you well?” Ragnar asked as he entered the tent to find the young man sitting in a far corner, knees to his chest. “Torstein told me I should check on you. He said you seemed a little pale and quiet.” He left unspoken the other thing that Torstein had told him: that Floki had been teasing Athelstan with items they’d retrieved from the church on the morning’s raid. He made a mental note to upbraid his friend for the slights, even though he knew Floki—being Floki—would continue to do whatever his strange mind told him.

Athelstan looked up and smiled tiredly. “I am fine. It has been a long day—a long couple of days, actually. I’m still unused to this much physical labor. Muscles are sore and weak, is all.”

It was clear to Ragnar that that was not, actually, all. He had seen what happened in the church. He had seen Athelstan show mercy for the arrow-riddled priest, much to the annoyance of the men who had been amusing themselves with his pain. Setting aside his weapons and pulling off his armor, he settled in next to his lover. Being this close brought up memories of what they had done in the river last night, and he couldn’t help the quick thrill that ran through his pelvis. Yet it was clear that lovemaking was not what Athelstan needed or wanted right now—not that they could have. “I know you too well, Athelstan. Something has happened. Can you tell me what?”

Athelstan hesitated, but then let out the words. “I killed a monk today.” He hung his head, and put his face in his hands.

Ragnar frowned. “Did he attack you?”

“No. He surprised me, is all. I was distracted by something, and I suddenly noticed someone rushing up to me. I just reacted blindly and struck him.” He rubbed his eyes and looked back up. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way his face looked when he died.”

Ragnar slipped an arm around his shoulders, even though it was risky to do so; any of their company could enter the tent at any time. “I understand. These sorts of things happen when you’re unused to combat. Something similar happened to me when I was young.”

“Oh?”

“I killed a pregnant woman on one of my early raids to the east. I had just slain her husband and she came at me with a kitchen knife. I could have disarmed her and bound her, to keep her from attacking in her grief, but instead I slashed her throat. I didn’t think about it; it just happened. My instincts felt I was at risk even though she posed no real threat to me.” He petted Athelstan’s shoulder. “I’ll never forget her face, either. But it is a good thing that I remember, I think. I know many Northmen don’t care whom they kill, or even enjoy slaughtering those who can cause them no harm. But I am not one of them. I learned from the guilt I felt over killing that woman to pay more attention when I have a weapon in my hand.”

Athelstan stared at him, and then looked away; it seemed the story had not convinced him to stop feeling guilty.

Ragnar tried again. “I know you are at your bones a man of gentle heart. You are skilled with your axe and shield, and I am still very proud of you for how you have handled yourself. But I know that you are not like those who seek pleasure in bloodshed. I wanted you to be trained in combat to protect yourself. I did not intially believe that you would use your weapons offensively.”

Athelstan cocked his head. “Then why did you want me to come with you? Just to keep you company?”

“No—although I will not say that is not a very nice benefit of you being here.” He nudged Athelstan with a shoulder and grinned. “In large part I wanted you here to help with diplomacy. I know King Horik and many of the others only want to raid and plunder, but I have bigger plans, as you know. I want to see more of your England. I want to see if we might one day have a settlement here. Negotiating such things will require more of your language than I yet have mastered. It will also require your understanding of these people—of Christians. And it will undoubtedly require your peaceful heart. I believe you alone could truly convince them that we do not all wish only to destroy. They would trust the word of a priest over the word of a warrior.”

“So my skills with the axe . . .”

“. . . are mainly to ensure you don’t die in the meantime. You seemed to be enjoying yourself and doing well enough when we were fighting against soldiers, so I have not held you back, but I did not intend for you to be on the front lines. I would rather have you deep within the wall, and fighting only when necessary. Unless,” he added, “you want to do more.”

Athelstan went quiet, though, to Ragnar’s relief, he also leaned in to the half-embrace, and some of the tension left his body. Finally, he spoke again. “I think for now I would like to stay back, if that’s all right with you. I’m not certain that I am a good enough warrior to be of any great use in that capacity. I will gladly help you with your efforts to negotiate, but I would rather use my axe only at need, not desire. You are right that I did enjoy our battles against the soldiers. I believe I now understand the fire—the bloodlust—I have heard warriors talk about. I felt strong and powerful when I was fighting like that. But I did not feel strong at all killing people who were no threat to me.”

“Neither do I, my friend. I am in love with the things my sword helps me gain, not with the sword itself.” After a quick glace at the tent flap, he reached down to tilt Athelstan’s chin up, and kissed him lightly. “I am ambitious, you know that, but I admit that what gets me up every day is the thought of seeing you and Aslaug and my children, not the thought that I may cause someone else’s death.”

“I know. And that is why I love you, even if some of the rest of your people make me angry.” Athelstan reached for Ragnar’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m curious, though. You said that my use in negotiation was only a part of why you brought me with you. Was there something else? Aside from the companionship, of course.”

“You do not know?” Ragnar raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”

“You dear man.” Ragnar shook his head and smiled gently. “I brought you here because I wanted to take you home. I took you from this land. It is only fair that I also returned you to it.”

 

***

 

As the shore—and Athelstan’s stern expression—vanished from sight, Ragnar could not help a pained sigh. His eyes stung with a rush of tears, and he blinked and shook his head, trying to stop the flood before anyone saw it.

Torstein caught his eye anyway. There was understanding written on his face, which was a comfort, but there was also something else. Echoes of the words his friend had spoken a month ago—concern that Athelstan would want to leave him if he were finally free to do so—beat against his mind like storm-tossed waves. After all these years of seeming love and loyalty—not just being his lover, or his trusted steward, but being part of his family—could it be that Athelstan had never actually felt anything for him at all?

It couldn’t be like that, he tried to convince himself. After all, it was only yesterday that Athelstan had said again that he loved him. It was only the day before that he had gladly accepted the gifts Ragnar gave him—the arm ring and its freedom, yes, but also the gift of his body. Ragnar had trusted Athelstan so completely that he finally felt able to let down his guard and allow himself to be taken that way. He had, at that moment of their coupling, felt closer to him and more loved by him than he ever had felt before. Athelstan knew he was free then; if he felt nothing, he could have declined. He could even have run away from the camp. Yet he did not. He had, as with every night of their journey thus far, slept soundly by his earl’s side. Their bodies were far enough apart that no one would think anything untoward, but near enough to hear and feel him breathe; near enough for the occasional fond, gentle caress under the cover of night. That these moments that had brought Ragnar such joy and contentment might have meant nothing to Athelstan seemed impossible. And yet, here he was, sailing back to a home occupied by a traitor, without the man he loved by his side.

The one hope with which he was left was that Athelstan simply had never seemed capable of such subterfuge as would have been required to feign love for so many years. He wore his emotions upon his chest like a jewel. Knowing that Ragnar had been so invested in his ability to negotiate, he may simply have believed that that really was where he could best be of use—not trying to fight his way back to their control of Kattegat. He may only have been trying to serve Ragnar, as he had for so many years, with the best skills he had. Instead of wanting the opportunity to escape, and to stay in his homeland, he may have been holding in his gentle heart every expectation that someday soon, after Ragnar had liberated his village from a tyrant, his beloved would come back for him—back to a peace and plenty that he himself had negotiated in Ragnar’s stead.  

That thought gave Ragnar some measure of hope, and he heaved a steadying breath. Consciously, he clung to the belief, and held it at the forefront of his mind along with the belief that the rest of his family were somewhere safe and cared for. The alternative—that he might again have lost all that he held dear, including Athelstan this time—was simply too much to bear. _Wait for me, my love_ , he pleaded silently as the boat carried him ever farther away. _I will return_.

 

 


End file.
